


No Rest For The Wicked

by brookely14



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Body Horror, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:29:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24191359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookely14/pseuds/brookely14
Summary: Time had never really cooperated with Draco Malfoy. Before the war, he had wanted it to speed up; during the Dark Lord’s reign, he wanted it all to stop and give him time to think, to plan. And now, now that it was all over, he wants everything to just slow down so he can finally be given a chance to catch his breath and move on, become something other than a war criminal. He wants all that remains, including himself, buried six feet under and little more than a memory, but the only saint he knows seems determined to change his mind. He had heard that there was no rest for the wicked, even in death - turns out it’s especially true for those with the Malfoy name.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	1. A Ministry Visit

The clock on the mantle showed half-past three in the morning, and yet here he was, still awake. The trial flitted in front of his eyes like a hummingbird, hovering in flashes of color and a frantic pulse before vanishing again. He can still feel the tens of gazes trained on a healing bruise along his jaw from the attack just outside the Ministry, feel the manacles tightening on his wrists as the leader of the _Wizengamot_ peered down at him, and Draco swallowed the nagging pull he felt towards the stairs leading to the roof of the manor; it always came at this time of the night, but his mother would notice his absence the next morning. He couldn’t let her lose her child and husband so close together.

“You may sit in that chair like it’s a throne, Mister Malfoy, but I want to remind you that you are no longer in command of anything - including yourself,” he repeated under his breath, brushing dust from a marble curl on the head of his mother’s favorite statue then flicking it off the pad of his thumb. “We’re truly sorry to have to do this to such a bright, young wizard.” Draco didn’t try to hide the mocking falsetto that was woven into the words, combing the greasy hair from his eyes with his fingers before tugging on it just to feel something, anything. The whole bloody manor was covered in the monitoring spells the ministry had cast when they had first hauled his father to Azkaban, and the record of his words wouldn’t report favorably in his hearing tomorrow; it was safe to assume the _Wizengamot_ wouldn’t take kindly to being mocked by a war criminal. 

“Fucking hell, can’t I just bloody sleep!” The punch to the sturdy wooden mantle barely registered until after it happened and he pulled his hand back to cut knuckles, smearing the blood with his other hand as the wounds stung. The trial slideshow started again, and he could hear his mother in the viewing section, openly and quietly weeping for the first time in his life. Rita Skeeter had finished a Quick-Quotes-Quill page before anyone had spoken, and that first time he twisted around he had found a set of fern-colored, haunted eyes at the back of the room. Draco had never felt as small as he did in that moment. 

A shudder ripped through his body and he pressed his forehead to the cool, stone wall, cradling his hand against his chest. “Please,” he begged to the manor settling around him, to the snowflake-dusted sky that was sending the first hints of winter to the ground, to the fucking spirit of Dumbledore, to the god he didn’t believe in - to whoever would listen to him anymore. “Just - just let me sleep.” The house settled with a sigh that pooled in his throat, sending faint rivers of blood along the creases in his hand, and he hated himself for the voice break that made his own knees weak. Outside, the peacocks screamed at the setting moon, echoing across the estate. 

* * *

Draco woke with a start on the living room’s couch, eyes flying open as he nearly fell off the seat cushions he’d been draped over. The wards from when the Dark Lord resided at the manor wailed like banshees, echoing through the vaulted rooms along with a booming knock at the front door, and he was thankful his mother had chosen to stay with her sister during the week of the hearing. After the initial rush of adrenaline had started to die down, he groaned loudly, eyes squeezed shut again, silencing the alarms with a swirl of his wand as he slowly rose to stand. Everything in his body hurt. A brief glance at the clock told him it was 7 in the morning - three hours of sleep was not a flattering way to appear at the second day of his trial. Another knock ricocheted around his skull before settling into an angry throb. “Coming,” he shouted, wearily opening his eyes fully and striding for the door, spine aching with every step. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his outfit from the hearing the day before, white dress shirt creased in all the wrong places, trousers twisted awkwardly around legs that felt too long for the rest of him. 

The latch had barely been lifted before the heavy door was pushed open, knocking Draco off-balance enough to have him stumbling as someone stepped into the front entrance hall, their cloak flaring out dramatically behind them. The first thing he noticed was the carefully-gelled hair that topped the figure that stood over a head taller than him, his groggy mind barely able to take that in before a slender, light-colored wand was pointed at his face, its owner peering suspiciously at him with piercing, grey eyes. “You must be Draco Malfoy.” There was a hint of a Spanish accent on their tongue, and he knew they had to be with the Ministry if they hadn’t killed him on sight. “Please place your wand on the floor and raise your hands to your head.” 

What a way to wake up, threatened in his own home. His eyes followed the wand up to the face of a man only a few years older than he was. He was handsome, in his own way, a hint of sandy stubble lining their jaw, and he noticed the edge of a tattoo peeking out of the edge of the neckline of their clothes. “You must be with the Ministry of Magic,” he replied, giving no sign he heard their instructions and choosing to duck under their arm as he started towards the kitchen. Part of him was hesitant about turning his back to the man, but really, he barely had any reason to keep living anymore; let the curses come. “I’d appreciate an explanation as to who exactly you are and why you were trying to break down my door at such an ungodly hour.”

He heard a rustle as they spun towards him, then footsteps as they followed, and the front door quietly clicked shut. Draco assumed they had used magic to guide it closed, going to one of the tall, mounted cupboards, pausing with his hand on the handle as the man spoke. “I was sent to watch over you during the length of your hearing, under order of the Minister of Magic himself. Have you.... Have you received any owls or mail, recently?” 

“There hasn’t been a delivery to the manor in over six months,” Draco replied over his shoulder, moving again and pulling down a silver-edged teacup and saucer. It was the only surviving remnant of a dish set that had been given to his parents on their wedding day; it was also the only thing in the house from his childhood that had lived through the war, and just feeling the worn metal beneath his thumb settled some of his nerves about the trial. “Last I checked, the Ministry has confiscated and been opening all of my family’s mail.” The kettle was already on the stove from the night before and he refilled it with a flick of his wand and a mumbled “ _aguamenti_ ”, turning on the burner. 

“Ah. I see.” 

When Draco turned to lean against the countertop, he saw them still lingering in the doorway awkwardly, and he raised an eyebrow as the man tucked their wand away into their robes. “There is a perfectly good chair right there. You’ve already invited yourself into my house, might as well invite yourself to the table as well,” he drawled, and even in his sleep-deprived state he got a twinge of satisfaction as the man flushed. Now that he wasn’t concerned with a curse hitting him right between the eyes, he could take the chance to look them over properly, leaning back on his hands and watching them pull out one of the wooden chairs. They were tall and lean, with the sort of build that seemed more suited to the beach than watching war criminals, at least from what he could see from the way their dark, three-piece suit fit. 

“My apologies,” the man said as he sat down carefully, and Draco’s ice-like gaze flicked back up to their face as they took a breath. “I haven’t - I’m afraid I have been terribly rude, let me start over and introduce myself. My name is Aedan Firethron, I am from the- the auror department, with the Ministry of Magic. As you said, the Ministry has been - for lack of a better word, reviewing, your family’s mail, and they found the number of Howlers and threatening messages rather concerning, especially the amount addressed specifically to you, and it was requested that you have a guard because of it.” 

Aedan had the most fascinating, slate-coloured eyes, and Draco met their gaze when it shifted up to his own; he couldn’t sense any malice coming from them, only a cautious curiosity. “I see,” he replied after a beat passed and their words had time to sink into his tired mind. “The Ministry has never-” Both men jumped as the kettle whistled loudly, Aedan chuckling softly in what he assumed was embarrassment, and Draco ignored him and quickly added his Earl Grey teabag to the cup before pouring in the boiling water. “As I was saying, the Ministry of Magic hasn’t been particularly concerned about the safety of their accused criminals in the past. Why the change of heart?”

His interest was caught when the auror visibly hesitated, looking down and to the side for a moment. “I - My apologies, Mister Malfoy, but that is confidential information, meant for Ministry personnel only.” 

Draco mustered what little energy he had to inject some venom into his next words, lifting his chin and looking down at them with carefully practiced disdain. “If I remember correctly, you are currently trespassing in mine and my family’s home, sent here by some unsubstantiated order of the Ministry, the very same Ministry that is currently attempting to send me to Azkaban with my Death Eater father. I believe I deserve to know everything that goes on with regards to my safety.” Merlin, Lucius would be proud of him for that one.

Again they paused and inwardly Draco groaned, using one hand to gently massage his temples. “I am truly sorry, Mister Malfoy, but I don’t think I am able to discuss such things with you, even if it does concern you and your safety,” the auror said slowly, shaking their head. 

“Very well.” He pulled the container of sugar cubes closer, dropping one into his tea before withdrawing his wand from the back pocket of his trousers, pointing it at Aedan as he waited for the sugar to dissolve. “I’m afraid that you have given me really no choice. You will tell me exactly what has happened for the Ministry to suddenly care so much about my wellbeing, or I will ensure that you are fed to our estate’s peacocks and the many other delightful creatures the Dark Lord entrusted to my family’s care.” The auror looked apprehensive for the first time they had set foot into the manor, and Draco tilted his head, watching them. “Do I make myself clear?”

There was a beat of silence in the kitchen as they stared at each other, and he could see the man’s fingers twitching, as if thinking about going for his wand. Then the sun shifted just enough to stream in the window, bathing the room in a rosy, gilded glow, and finally Aedan inclined his head, relaxing back into his chair. “Crystal,” they conceded, and Draco lowered his wand but made no move to put it down completely. “I will tell you, but it cannot get out that you know. The Minister, Shacklebolt, he has sworn everyone involved to secrecy, you cannot tell a soul.” 

Draco snorted, swirling his glass to melt the remains of the cube. “I assume it will be in the papers by the end of the day then. Continue.” 

Confusion flicked across their features for an instant before it vanished, and the auror took a deep breath, gazing at the fingers laced together in his lap before looking back up. “Harry Potter himself asked for an audience with the Minister, where he requested a guard for you. He said that he believes the wizarding world is more of a threat to you now more than you ever were to them, and that he’d even pay whatever it would take to assign a decent guard for the length of the trial. I am... I am not from this country, I am here with an exchange program, and the Minister suggested I do it because I did not know anything of the crimes you or your family are accused of.” 

The moment Draco heard that Potter was the one who requested his guard he choked on his tea, coughing quietly into his elbow while his mind raced and Aedan finished talking. Potter? They had always hated him, ever since that terrible first-year meeting, even tried to kill him in sixth year; why did they want him protected? A tiny, hopeful part of him reared its head for the first time since the Battle of Hogwarts and he forced it down again, shaking his head. “I’m sure some of the aurors informed you of how notorious the Malfoy name is,” he said instead, watching ripples shimmer across the surface of his drink. 

“They did. Your family has been very busy over the course of their existence.”

Draco laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I have learned that there is no real rest for the wicked, not even death.” He looked up at them, the pad of his thumb running back and forth over one of the ridged edges of the saucer, and he took a moment to choose his next words carefully. “Do you believe them?” he said quietly, and he knew they needed no clarification on what he was asking about. 

Aedan’s storm-eyes sought out his own. “I believe that you were just a boy,” they replied simply, and Draco let out a slow breath as the words settled beneath his skin. “With your father, there is no question, as the courts have already decided. But you - who is to say how much control a boy has on his actions.”

Their reply made him pause for a moment; there was one person that was here on his side, that didn’t believe he was the same degree of monster as his father. “Thank you,” Draco replied with a small nod, pushing away from the counter and starting towards the hall. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go get ready for the hearing. Help yourself to any tea or biscuits, I’m sure such a talented auror like yourself should be able to find everything without too much trouble.” He waved aimlessly at the cupboards behind him as he passed through the doorway, slipping his wand into his back pocket, and before he had even reached the stairs his mind was already trying to come up with realistic reasons why Potter wanted to come to his rescue.


	2. A Friendly Rivalry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, there's a bit of a warning for this chapter. It features some writing that's meant to imitate a panic attack or really frantic thoughts, and if you need to ignore those paragraphs because they may trigger something for you then please skip as needed. They're relatively non-essential and more for atmosphere's sake. Besides that, hope you enjoy!

* * *

“The _Wizengamot_ calls Mister Harry Potter to the witness area to speak on behalf of the accused, Mister Draco Malfoy.” The surprise must have shown on his face because some of the wizards in the lofted pews laughed softly amongst themselves. Shacklebolt, the Chief Warlock in this case, hadn’t said a word despite leading the first day of the trial completely on his own, and instead the speaker was a short, pudgy witch sitting to the right of Shacklebolt’s tall seat. Her blonde hair was stick-straight, barely reaching the tops of her robes and greasier than his own, but there was something in her eyes that made him want to take a step back, like when he had met Dolores Umbridge the first time.

There was a murmur that rippled throughout the room, and then suddenly some members of the _Wizengamot_ were standing and applauding. Draco twisted to see what they were looking at and watched, open-mouthed, as Potter made his way from the audience seats onto the polished floor, then past his chair into the designated area for witnesses to speak on the side of the room, almost perfectly halfway between the accused’s chair and Shacklebolt’s spot. What was the Boy Who Lived doing at the trial for a Death Eater, let alone the one that he’d been feuding with for nearly ten years?

Saviour Potter was dressed in what had to be a muggle outfit: dark jeans, a black windbreaker jacket they slipped off in order to drape it awkwardly over the back of the chair, and a grey cotton t-shirt with some writing on it, but the letters were impossible to make out. Part of Draco was shocked by how normal they looked, how unchanged Potter seemed despite everything he’d been through, that they’d both been through. Their hair was the same twisted birds-nest as it had been at Hogwarts, the same stupid glasses were balanced on their nose; the only different thing he could see was the 5’o’clock shadow lingering on their jawline. The emerald eyes Draco had caught on the first day of the hearing flicked over to him before jumping to something in the audience section, and the realization that they belonged to Potter made something catch in his throat. “Fuck,” he whispered, little more than a breath, and he hated the way his pulse skipped. He could already tell that having them sit there, mere meters away, would make the day’s proceedings feel like an eternity, and he was dreading every moment of it. 

The same witch that spoke earlier shuffled through a stack of parchment held in one arm before looking up. “Now, Mister Potter, can you give us a little background about yourself please? Explain your relationship with Mister Malfoy, that sort of thing, whenever you’re ready.” She gave him a short nod, and Draco noticed that Potter looked slightly uncomfortable.

“Well, um, I’m Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, um - let’s be honest, you all already know who I am. Really recently I finished a summer term at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to make up for the year I lost chasing Voldemort’s-” Potter ignored how the room seemed to darken slightly and many people in the room sucked in a sharp breath, Draco included “-horcruxes my seventh year, and now I’m a couple weeks into auror training with the Ministry. Malfoy and I were in the same year at Hogwarts, there’s always been a - a friendly rivalry between us, you know, since he was in Slytherin and I was in Gryffindor.” Draco swallowed a laugh at the way they described their mutual hatred; if anyone had ever been in the same room as them both they’d know Potter’s statement was a complete lie. But again, he didn’t know why they were trying to make him look good; the Malfoy name couldn’t offer the Boy Who Lived anything anymore. 

The witch smiled again, but this time it never reached her eyes. She looked at her papers and cleared her throat softly before speaking. “Excellent, thank you Mister Potter. During our preliminary discussions, you mentioned that the Malfoy family helped protect you from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at multiple points throughout the war. One of these times serves as a sort of character testimony, discussing actions of one of his parents, and the other directly involves the actions of Mister Malfoy himself, is that correct?” After a short nod from Potter she continued. “Would you care to tell us about those, maybe starting with the Battle of Hogwarts and the character witness, then moving into the one discussing the Snatchers incident?”

Potter opened his mouth to start speaking and Draco dropped his gaze to the marbled floor, not even trying to pay attention to whatever they’re saying. He knows about the two instances she’s referring to and he can’t do it, he can’t think about those memories of the Dark Lord looming over his shoulder like a shadow or the times where he held so many lives in his palms and slept with a knife beneath his pillow, and he closed his eyes in an attempt to catch the breath that’s suddenly escaped him but all he can see is a lifeless hand dangling from the groundskeeper’s arms and everywhere he looks reeks of blood and death and-

“Everything okay, Mister Malfoy?” The witch’s high-pitched voice jerks him back into the courtroom, wrists instinctively pushing up against the manacles holding them to the chair, and when he opens his eyes the fifty faces of the _Wizengamot_ peering down at him with thinly veiled pity. He realizes the loud throbbing in his head is his heartbeat thudding in his ears. “You sounded like you were in distress,” she added primly, and Draco quickly shook his head.

“No, I’m - I’m brilliant,” he managed after clearing his throat. “Brilliant.” His voice sounded foreign and raw, but she seemed to accept his response. Memories of the fight still flashed on the backs of his eyelids every time he blinked, still stealing some of his air each time.

She turned her attention back to Potter, taking a quick glance at the stack of parchment before speaking again. “So, as you were saying, she lied and kept you alive despite a direct order?”

“Yes.” Draco couldn’t look at anyone, focusing on the floor just past his feet instead - he just kept seeing the lifeless expression Potter had on his face at the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, and if these memories stuck around for much longer he might lose what little composure he had with three hours of sleep. “Before I was on the ground,” they continued, “he’d hit me with _avada kedavra_ pretty much dead on, and then he’d wanted to make sure I was actually dead, yknow, since I am the Boy Who Lived.” 

A wave of quiet laughter traveled around the room, and he could picture Saviour Potter’s stupid, polite smile that Slughorn loved being flashed in the witness box. His eyes followed along a faint, spidering crack in the granite in front of him. “Mrs. Malfoy was told to come and check, to make sure I really was dead, um, and there’s literally no way she missed me breathing. So she kind of - she crouched down, almost like she was hiding me so no one could really see what was happening, and she asked me if Draco was still alive at the castle, and I had just seen him so I told her the truth, I told her yes. Next thing I know she’s up, she’s standing up and still kind of hiding me, and she looked him - she looked Voldemort right in the eyes and told him I was dead, she lied straight to his face. I’m pretty sure that if he had sent anyone, literally anyone else in his little camp thing, to come to check on me or even like double-check her work, I would not be sitting here right now. I bet she would’ve been murdered right after me, actually.” 

This whole story, even if it was a different side of the fight recalling it, was entirely new and unexpected to Draco. His mother had neglected to mention her bold defiance of the Dark Lord, even after the war had ended, but it explained why his parents had taken him and fled the moment Potter’s fight against You-Know-Who had started. She had known that the moment he found out Potter wasn’t dead, the moment the Dark Lord won the fight, he would’ve slaughtered her and the rest of the Malfoy name without a second thought. 

There was a moment of silence in the room, and Draco felt as if it would smother him. “Mister Potter,” someone said, disrupting the quiet in an irritatingly bright tone, and he recognized the voice with an inward groan. It was the same witch that had been leading most of the trial, and he resisted the urge to roll his eyes as she cleared her throat again. “Do you have any ideas as to why she concealed such... essential information from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

This surprising topic change sent a hint of concern coursing through him: his mother had somehow remained free of any charges from the Ministry for her roles before and during the war, and Draco didn’t want to picture her locked in Azkaban, growing old in a cell like his father. He raised his head to watch the court proceedings again, and the concern was magnified when he saw Potter hesitate. “Well,” they said slowly, and Draco found himself gnawing on the inside of his cheek. “I don’t really feel like that’s - like it’s my place to say, yknow. I don’t exactly know what goes on in her head, that was always Voldemort’s kind of style.”

Merlin, was Potter really giving the _Wizengamot_ the same snark he’d give to Snape? Did he not understand the consequences of this hearing? The witch didn’t seem satisfied with the answer, her smile slipping as she leaned forward in her chair. “I understand your reservations, Mister Potter, but as you said earlier, you have known her son for your nearly ten years of schooling together. He must reflect at least some of her ideals, yes? And I presume you’re familiar enough with Mister Malfoy to take a - a stab in the dark, you might say.” 

“I’m really not,” Saviour Potter replied almost immediately, and their matter-of-fact tone stung Draco more than it should have. “I’m definitely not Mrs. Malfoy, I don’t have kids, and he and I were just in the same classes, it’s not like we were mates. I don’t really care what her motivations used to be, or what they are now, all that mattered is that she wanted me alive, so here I am.” They raised a hand, waving towards the audience absently. His jaw was set, eyes flashing with a defiant expression that Draco remembered from potions, the familiarity of it almost making him smile. “Her son is the one on trial, so she is here, you know, if you want to ask her yourself.” 

A murmur spread through the _Wizengamot_ , many of the members shifting to whisper to their neighbours, robes rustling like leaves in a forest. The same witch seemed at a slight loss for words, jaw silently opening and closing for a moment, before she looked up to Shacklebolt in his towering seat. An unspoken question passed between the pair, then Shacklebolt gave a small shake of his head and the witch nodded, her seemingly default smile returning to her face shortly after. “I don’t believe that will be necessary, Mister Potter, but thank you for your honesty. Let’s continue with your testimony, to the other incident, with the Snatchers. Can you explain to everyone what those are?” 

Fuck. His gaze seemed drawn to Potter as he clung to the arms of the chair like a lifeline, and when their eyes shifted over, he flushed and quickly looked down after nearly being caught staring. He remembered the night they were referring to; he remembered every single second of it, and it had been one of the most terrifying evenings of his entire existence. Bellatrix had known, she had to have known that it really was Potter and that of course Draco would be able to identify him, and that’s why she had shoved him up close and dangled Potter’s life in his hands and made sure he’d be the one to suffer for letting him slip through their fingers. 

Saviour Potter was quiet for a moment, and Draco looked up just enough to see their eyes glaze over slightly, a hand running through their unruly hair before falling back into their lap. “So, the Snatchers,” they started, and there was something hesitant in their voice. “They were sort of like bounty hunters almost, during the war. They’d roam around everywhere, looking for muggle-borns or - or people that were like openly speaking out against Voldemort, and generally they’d catch them and bring them back to him to be dealt with.” 

Potter seemed to ignore the grimace that everyone in the room made when he said the Dark Lord’s name, continuing as if nothing had happened. “Me and Hermione and Ron, we were camping out in the woods by where Hermione’s family had gone on holiday, and the Snatchers somehow managed to figure out exactly where we were. They broke through all the wards and charms we had set up, they cast some sort of anti-apparation spell, so we were stuck, really, and that was - it just was not a good situation. Then right as they got to us Hermione had enough sense to fire a stinging jinx at me, like directly at my face, so they really couldn’t see-” He waved a hand vaguely towards his face “-any of this, the scar or really like any defining bits of my face. It was absolutely brilliant thinking really, seeing as I’ve been in the papers forever and then all these wanted posters were everywhere, I’m pretty sure I would’ve been killed on sight if it wasn’t for her.” 

Interesting, Bellatrix’s gut instinct had been right. Draco’s eyes were drawn to the witch that was leading the proceedings as she shuffled through her stack of parchment. “Right, but aren’t you claiming that it was Mister Malfoy that actually saved your life, not Miss Granger’s Stinging Jinx?” she pointed out, and Potter nodded.

“No, you’re right, he did, she’s just the reason I was even given a fighting chance. I was more - it was more like giving context, really.” Then Potter glanced in his direction, and Draco hated the way his traitorous heart picked up its pace. “So the Snatchers, after they’d got us all tied up, they’d apparated us to Malfoy Manor. From what I remember it was kind of like Voldemort’s base during the beginning bits of the war, where all the Death Eaters would hold meetings and plan, that sort of thing. Bellatrix Lestrange, she was a lot like Voldemort’s second-in-command, and I think she was Mrs. Malfoy’s sister too, so she was in the manor when the Snatchers brought us in. We got really lucky because Voldemort was out doing something else, so the moment we showed up they called for Bellatrix, and she took one look at me and Ron and Hermione, and even with my face all swollen, she could just tell that we were school age.” 

Saviour Potter paused to take a deep breath, eyes flicking over again, and this time Draco didn’t bother trying to hide his staring. “Mister and Mrs. Malfoy came running the moment Bellatrix started her screeching about who we might be, and she told them to get Malf- Draco,” they corrected quickly. “So he came into this grand-looking room the Snatchers had apparated us into, and they’ve got Ron and Hermione off to the side, Bellatrix has got this hunch that I’m, well, that I’m Harry Potter, so she’d taken it upon herself to keep track of me. I could barely see anything, I’d shoved my glasses into my pocket just before they’d got us and my face was puffed up enough to force one of my eyes closed, um, but there was a bit where she pushed up my hair, made him look me over, like really look at me-”

Their green eyes caught his own and suddenly Draco was there, kneeling in front of the Boy Who Lived on the floor of his family’s manor, their face distended so much that the famous scar looked no more than a curved line on their forehead and they looked like a hideous monster, something out of a child’s nightmare, and he hated the fact that he could still tell that it was them, hated the way his father hovered over his shoulder and he hated that he knew the way things would end if he listened to his father’s desperate whispers and made everyone proud for once-

“-and the only thing he said was, ‘I can’t be sure’”. The familiarity of their voice dragged him back to the present and Draco surfaced from the nightmare with a soft, sharp breath in, lifting his head to find Potter’s eyes still trained steadily on him. “That’s it, that’s all he said the whole time me and Ron and Hermione were actually in the manor. By this point we’ve spent nearly a third of our lives dueling and playing each other in Quidditch and taking classes together, he had to have known it was me. If he had just said something like, ‘yeah, that’s - that’s the boy who lived, right there’, his family’s honour and prestige would’ve been returned, he would’ve been Voldemort’s favourite, he’d have been a younger Bellatrix basically, but still all he ever said was ‘I can’t be sure’.” 

The courtroom had shifted into a solemn silence, and Draco’s the one to finally break their gaze and look to the floor again; they were right, it was all he said, even when he was told to stand watch so Bellatrix could torture Granger in ways he didn’t want to think about. “If he hadn’t lied for me, looked his parents and Voldemort’s second-in-command right in the eye and said I wasn’t Harry Potter, I would’ve been killed that day. Probably like the moment he identified me I would’ve been hit with the killing curse or a _crucio_ , it really wouldn’t have ended well, and I’ve got no idea why he did it but he lied, to everyone. He single-handedly saved my life, and I’ve got no doubt that he’s the reason I’m actually sitting here right now.” 

For the first few moments after Potter finishes, it seems as if the room is scared to take a breath. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if this is the first time some of the _Wizengamot_ was hearing about the horrors that people - no, that children, had to go through during the war. The only sound is the light scratching of what had to be Rita Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes-Quill against parchment somewhere in the audience section behind him, and he’s staring at the marble floor as if he could force it to open and swallow him whole by sheer will alone. Then someone coughed quietly, Draco isn’t sure where, and it was like a spell had been broken: some members of the audience and the _Wizengamot_ started whispering amongst themselves, noise bolstered by the rustling of robes and soft creaks of the wooden benches. On the edges of his vision he could see some members of the _Wizengamot_ glancing between him and Potter, speaking behind their hands. Head lifting a little more now that he didn’t feel quite as persecuted, his eyes sought out Potter’s emerald ones, again steadily holding their gaze for a few breaths. 

“Mister Potter, I do have another question for you, something that was brought up to me by some of your former classmates at Hogwarts.” In unison both pairs of eyes flicked over to the witch as she rifled through her stack of parchment, pulling out a sheet from the middle with a wider smile than before, the rest of the room drifting back to silence. The same stroke of concern for his mother’s safety reappeared, this time on his own behalf. “When you announced you were going to be speaking at Mister Malfoy’s trial with the Ministry, some... concerned parties reached out to me on your behalf, in an effort to negate any peace-making attempts you may be attempting. They assured me that they hold no ill will towards you, Mister Potter, or Mister Malfoy, but they wanted to make sure that the _Wizengamot_ understood the context of your ... friendly rivalry.”

Oh fuck, he knew exactly where this was going. It suddenly dawned on him that her smile looked more predatory than his first impression suggested and Draco swallowed hard, leaning back in the stiff-backed chair in an attempt to brace himself. He had been stupid, so stupid, all of the petty harassment that was completely unwarranted was now coming back with an added vengeance. An Azkaban-like chill settled into his bones as the witch resumed her questioning. 

“Many of your former peers have claimed that Mister Malfoy has terrorized you and your friends on many occasions during your time at school, potentially starting the moment you first set foot on Hogwarts grounds. Is there any truth in those claims, Mister Potter?”

“Yes,” Potter replied simply, and Draco wanted to throw himself off the nearest bridge.

“Is it true that he has intentionally gone out of his way to make your life much more difficult than it should have been, including giving a highly dangerous, cursed item to a member of your Quidditch team, and interfering with your time spent in classes?”

“Yes.” In his defense, it hadn’t intentionally been directed towards Katie Bell, she had just been an unfortunate near casualty. 

“Did he repeatedly call your close friend, Miss Granger, a mudblood simply because she was born to muggle parents?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mister Malfoy attempt to cast an Unforgivable at you, the Cruciatus, but it failed?”

“Yes.” Draco’s blood ran cold. No one, absolutely no one knew about that exchange apart from Professor Snape, and that had been because the man had saved him from bleeding to death on the bathroom floor - unless Potter had told someone. The spell itself had barely even landed, and any pain they had felt was from his sheer panic because of the _sectumsempra_ that had just cut him to ribbons, not from any real desire to do them harm. It was stupid, really, because even after they tried to kill him, he still hadn’t wanted them hurt, still didn’t. 

The witch smiled triumphantly down at Draco before turning her attention back to Potter, looking as if she had made some grand revelation to the courtroom, and he can feel the glares from the _Wizengamot_ threatening to burn holes into his robes. “Then, Mister Potter, can you explain to me why you’re here testifying on Mister Malfoy’s behalf? He treated you horribly for so many years, he stood by and participated in the torture of your friends, yet you’re vouching for his innocence and freedom. Is it some sort of hero complex from the wizarding saviour, missing the spotlight now that the war has ended and the fame is starting to fall away?” 

Draco was admittedly curious as well, but he knew her theory wasn’t correct. Potter wasn’t - he wouldn’t do something like this for attention, he hated all the fame he got from something that happened before he was even a toddler.

“So, you’re right about the fact that he’s been an absolute nightmare for a while now.” He expected it but Potter’s words still hurt like a soft punch to the gut, making him wince silently. “Literally from day one we were sort of at each other’s throats, I was famous because of what happened to me, he was famous because of his family name, and I didn’t know that going in so I didn’t - I wasn’t scared of him for it or something like that, I’m not exactly sure. But. He did save my life, like I’ve emphasized for the past fifteen minutes, and we’re really - really, we’re kind of even, I’ve done some stuff to him too. I - I’ve accidentally used a spell to basically stab him, I’ve left one of his best friends to die in a room of _fiendfyre_ , I even stole his wand for a bit. And - and I recently got his father thrown into Azkaban for the rest of his life, so there’s that, and I kind of reckon we’re a bit even now.” 

Draco’s head had snapped up fast enough to give him whiplash when they started listing their own questionable actions, and his jaw had dropped before they finished speaking. Even as the Boy Who Lived it was incredibly dangerous to admit to such things, especially in front of the highest wizarding court, and yet here they were, risking their own freedom on a Death Eater’s behalf. 

Almost instantly the courtroom erupted into chaos, some members of the _Wizengamot_ leaping to their feet and shouting for Potter to be arrested. Every part of him was shifting into fight-or-flight, muscles tensing because he’d rather curse someone in the _Wizengamot_ and be damned to Azkaban for the rest of his life than watch them get hurt anymore, but Potter just sat there, staring out at the mess with only a hint of apprehension on his face. An unrecognizable voice in the audience section behind him was shouting loud enough to nearly drown out the other noise, going on about the real monster in the room.

His eyes were snapped to the other side of the room as Shacklebolt stood, already seated high above the rest of the _Wizengamot_ and absolutely towering over the room once he was on his feet. The tip of their wand pressed into his cheek and then his voice boomed. “Silence!” they roared, voice magnified enough to echo around inside Draco’s skull, and the wizards and witches he could see had their hands clapped over their ears. Everything became so quiet he swore he could hear the blood rushing through his body. “There will be no one speaking apart from the investigator and the witness, and if there are any further outbursts, I will not hesitate to remove people from this courtroom.” As they sank down into their seat again they gazed over everyone with a stern expression, pulling their wand away from their cheek and nodding at the witch on their right. “You may continue.”

She forced a smile, glancing down at her parchment stack then back up to Potter, who was still sitting comfortably in the witness area. “Unless you have any other statements to make, Mister Potter, I believe we have all the information we need.”

They shrugged and stood, grabbing their jacket and draping it over their left arm. “I’ve said everything that needs to be said.” Draco felt frozen in place, watching as Saviour Potter made their way out of the witness seats and brushed past his chair with a side glance, most likely going to a seat in the back of the audience section. This was the closest they had been since that time in the manor, and the faint smell of their cologne, something warm and familiar, drifted into his lungs and clung to his insides like thorns, making him swallow hard and shift his gaze to the floor again. He wasn’t - he hadn’t been ready for this, to see _them_ again let alone hear them defending him, a Death Eater. 

There was a moment of silence, then the witch whose voice he would hear in his sleep tonight started speaking again. “Our next round of questioning will be with the accused, Mister Draco Malfoy, in order to verify Mister Potter’s recounting of events and offer his own explanation for certain situations during the war. Because of his alleged crimes, talent for potion-making, and family history, the _Wizengamot_ requests all of his questioning be done while he is under the influence of Ministry-created _veritaserum_.”

Draco's head shot up, meeting the witch’s smug expression with wide eyes as the _Wizengamot_ dissolved into conspiratorial whispers. “No,” he breathed, and the what-ifs ran through his mind faster than anything ever had: they’d question his motives, his reasons for lying to Bellatrix and for saving Potter, for not killing them when he had the chance, for letting them live when their death would have benefitted him so much, then his - his _infatuation_ with the Chosen One would come out and he couldn’t do it to Potter for saving his life and he couldn’t to his mother because she was one of two people actually on his side and he couldn’t do it to himself because he knew he wouldn’t survive it - 

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” She had a hand to her ear mockingly and he leaned forward in the chair, licking his lips before speaking again.

“I said no, I won’t take the _veritaserum_. I will submit to questioning but I don’t require the need of potions to tell the truth.” 

A hum rippled through the room, and he could hear Rita Skeeter’s quill scratching frantically against parchment. The witch in front of him dropped her facade, nearly glaring at him with a cold, condescending expression. “That was not an option given to you, Mister Malfoy. You can either take the _veritaserum_ and allow yourself to be questioned, or your side of things will remain untold to this court.”

 _He can’t he can’t he can’t_ \- Draco forced the choir of voices ringing in his ears silent even as his chest threatened to close in upon itself. “I will not take the _veritaserum_ ,” he repeated, shaking his head, and the _Wizengamot_ was struck by a swarm of low whispers. 

The witch smiled down at him, and this time it struck a chord of fear into his bones. “If Mister Malfoy has nothing to say to us then I suggest we end the hearing here for the time being. The _Wizengamot_ will meet on their own and decide how to proceed, and we will send an owl when we have come to a decision.” 

Before Draco could even process what had happened Shacklebolt pounded his gavel on the top of his podium, nodding. “Court adjourned.” The members of the _Wizengamot_ all stood, talking amongst themselves, more than a few shooting furtive glances at him, and his cheeks burned as he stayed trapped in the chair. 

Aedan came from behind him somewhere, their jacket hem swirling around their knees. “Not a bad day, only one outburst.” They withdrew their wand from their sleeve, tapping it to one of the manacles and stepping back as they opened with a loud clang. “There’s usually a few more at a massive trial like this.” 

Wearily pushing up on the armrests to stand, Draco nodded at them. “Thank you,” he said quietly, rubbing at the red marks circling his wrists, and he turned towards the exit just in time to see his mother approaching him as Aedan backed away a bit. She looked as distraught as he’d expected, and he avoided her gaze for fear she’d see something reflected in his eyes. 

“Draco you need to testify,” she said in a low, fierce voice, and by the movement of her head, he could tell she shifted her attention to the members of the _Wizengamot_ that had started filing out of the pews, making their way in their direction. “There is nothing you can possibly say under _veritaserum_ that can ruin this for you, if you don’t agree to questioning there is a very good chance they are going to send you to Azkaban.”

“There is always going to be a chance of that, regardless of if I testify or not.” She had reached for his hands and he pulled them away, carefully stepping around her and going towards the door. “I refuse to take a potion just to tell the truth about how the war went. It’s - it’s humiliating.”

He could hear the soft click of her heels as she followed, and he assumed Aedan had fallen in-step behind both. “Draco, please,” she tried. “Be reasonable, I just don’t want you to end up like your father.” 

That, that was what he had been bracing for since the start of the trial - she didn’t believe he could pull this off, that he had been innocent during the war and nothing he had done was of his own free will. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said sharply, and he felt a quiet pang of shame when she stayed silent until the trio had left the Ministry building and apparated into the manor again. 


	3. A Suffocation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, like the last chapter, this features potentially panic-attack-inducing language, and there's some pretty vivid descriptions of a panic attack happening. There are also some hints at suicidal ideations mixed into the panic attack sequence, but they're more offhand comments than fleshed-out thoughts. Besides that, I hope you enjoy!

The morning after that fiasco of a hearing, Draco received an owl for the first time since the war had ended. He had been sitting at the desk in his room, attempting to read whatever trash they decided was worthy of printing in _The Daily Prophet_ and pointedly ignoring the article written about his trial, when the large black-and-grey speckled owl tapped impatiently on the glass of his window with its beak and made him jump. The sound startled him, much more than he’d care to admit, and he turned the envelope over in his hands after taking it from the bird. There was no family crest or identifying image stamped into the wax seal, nothing interesting or different about the parchment, and after gently opening the letter he tossed the owl a treat from the jar on his desk. It took him a few read-throughs to decipher the messy, looping handwriting, and the lines slanted up to the right corner of the scrap of parchment. 

_Malfoy-_

_Want to get coffee and talk? Tomorrow (Wednesday), 2pm, at The Split Bean cafe? It’s a muggle shop, 23 Leather Lane in London. Just reply if you can’t make it, otherwise I’ll see you then._

_-HJP_

He desperately wracked his brain to match a face with those initials and came up empty. Why was this the only mail to get through the Ministry’s restrictions, and what did it mean by ‘talk’? There was nothing that suggested the writer was being particularly threatening, it didn’t tell him how disgusting and worthless he was, which would have been expected, but still something about it all was setting off warning bells in the back of his mind. 

“Aedan,” he called over his shoulder, and he waited until he heard the auror’s footsteps pause outside his open bedroom door before continuing. “We’re going to London tomorrow.”

“Excuse me? You are virtually on house arrest; may I ask why?”

He turned towards them, holding the parchment up and shaking it a bit. “I’ve been summoned to coffee tomorrow by some unknown party that managed to sneak a letter through the Ministry’s defenses.”

The apprehension was obvious on their face. “Draco, are you... Are you sure that’s wise? It could be a trap by someone intending to - to finish you off, perhaps on behalf of He Who Must Not Be Named.” 

“If it was an invitation from someone that wanted to cause me harm, why would the Ministry actually allow it through?”

He watched as the auror paused before slowly nodding, leaning against the doorframe with their arms crossed. “I believe we should at least be cautious going into tomorrow. They must be an extremely powerful wizard to get through the wards set up around the manor.” 

Draco waved a hand dismissively, turning back towards his desk and picking up the paper again. “It’s a muggle place, surely it can’t be too dangerous.” And if the mysterious sender really did want to finish him off, he might thank them first.

* * *

Draco didn’t know what he was expecting to see at the muggle cafe, but when he stepped through the door his eyes were drawn to a secluded table with only one person sitting at it. It took a moment for him to realize what he was even looking at, and when it hit him in the gut like McGonagall’s _depulso_ , every possible scenario he had run through was thrown out the window; in fact, the only coherent thought he could form was _oh fuck_ , because even from the back he recognized the mess of black hair and it turned out that the _HJP_ from the letter turned out to be Harry fucking J-something Potter and he was stupid for not realizing it sooner. They were right there, they were sitting a few meters away and they had owled him to get coffee and talk, and for the first time since Hogwarts hope reared its ugly head inside him, and he let it. 

He maneuvered around the other customers and tables until he was standing on the opposite side of the Boy Who Lived, Aedan following closely behind. Potter was reading a book he hadn’t heard of, something named _Lord of the Flies_ , and they wore a black leather jacket that stole more of his sanity the longer he stared at it, until Draco cleared his throat quietly and they looked up. “Hello,” he said, awkwardly twisting his hands together behind his back. The rectangular, wooden table had four chairs at it, two on each side, and suddenly he wasn’t too sure about sitting directly across from Saint Potter. 

“Hey,” they replied, shifting a receipt paper to mark their place before closing the book. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want coffee or tea or anything, but they gave me a few water glasses when I got my drink.” He gestured to a black-lidded cup in front of him and the two smaller, clear glasses next to it. “I can go up to get you something.” 

Draco delicately separated the cups, keeping his gaze down, shaking his head and holding out one to Aedan. “Water is fine for me, thank you. I’ve been drinking far too much tea lately.” He mumbled an “ _augamenti_ ”, fingers holding the rim as the water stream flowed from his palm, setting the cup down after it was three-quarters full. Merlin, his hands were shaking enough to splash some of the liquid onto the tabletop. When he raised his head Potter’s eyes flicked over to the auror on Draco’s left, and he waved his free hand in their general direction. “This is Aedan Firethron, he’s with the aurors. I’ve apparently been assigned a guard for the duration of the hearing.” 

There was no change in Potter’s expression when he brought up Aedan, not that he’d been expecting one, and he stayed standing when the auror took the cup and settled into the chair diagonal to the Boy Who Lived. “He is the easiest assignment I have had in a long time,” they commented, silently mimicking Draco and filling his glass, the water moving much quicker from his hand. “You are Harry Potter, yes? You spoke at Draco’s trial.” 

A short, half-hearted laugh came from Potter and they took a sip from their lidded drink, nodding. “The one and only.” He noticed they seemed to be bracing for something.

“You... You said you are training for the aurors, yes? What do you think of it so far? I remember being surprised by how much paperwork is involved, I had thought we would always be in the field,” Aedan replied with a small chuckle, leaning back in his chair. As Potter’s eyes moved to focus on the other wizard Draco took the chance to sink into the chair across from them, idly tracing the top of the glass with an index finger. He sat quietly as the two chatted, sipping at his water whenever he felt like their conversation might try to involve him, and soon the tremble in his fingers died down. It felt so surreal, being this close to Saint Potter with none of the Hogwarts animosity between the two of them, just a semi-awkward vibe in the air, and he stole fleeting glances in their direction. They looked different now, now that the war was over, as if some of their edge had gone and they could relax more. 

After fifteen minutes of bouncing around that topic, it turned to something that caught his attention. “Is it true, what you said at the trial? You survived the killing curse head-on?” Aedan’s voice didn’t have any of the reverence Draco typically heard people use with the Boy Who Lived; it was full of curiosity and respect, but the words themselves were delivered as if they were part of a casual conversation. He was admittedly curious as well, eyes shifting up to watch as they spoke. _The Prophet_ had sung tales of how the great Harry Potter had defied death not once but twice, but it would be different, hearing it from the mouth of Saint Potter himself.

“Yeah, yeah that’s right.” Draco watched their gaze flick down to their drink before becoming unfocused for a moment. “I mean I don’t really remember anything from that first time, back when I was a baby, but everyone’s pretty sure I did then, and now I’ve got that new time, from the Battle of Hogwarts.”

Everyone was quiet for a moment, the sounds of the other customers and baristas bustling around the shop filling the silence, until Draco decided to speak up. “So,” he started, speaking slowly to give himself time to choose the right words, making sure to keep his tone neutral. “If I may ask, do you remember anything from your most recent interaction with the killing curse?” He expected them to talk about the spell bouncing off, or he dodged it, or it hit some limb and St. Mungo’s had to work some magic on it to make it more normal.

Their emerald eyes moved up to meet his own, and the searching way they gazed at him made Draco want to take a step back. “Yeah - I mean yeah I do. I blacked out for a minute, and then I ended up at this train station, Dumbledore was there, and we talked for a bit, but basically, he told me I had a choice, about coming back or not. I think the - the option I chose is pretty obvious, I came back, it felt like I got run over by the Knight Bus a couple of times but it was better than just staying dead, you know?” 

Something about their retelling of events stuck with him, gnawing and twisting at his insides that made the tremor return to his hands, and Draco quickly moved them into his lap beneath the table. “So, you did actually die then,” he said quietly, raising an eyebrow. “It was the full thing, right? Heart stopped, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, all of it? You were really dead?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Those two words seemed to puncture his lungs and suddenly there was a lump forming in his throat, and the shake in his hands became even worse than before. 

They had been dead, they had _died_ because Draco hadn’t killed the Dark Lord in his sleep like he had been given the chance to so many nights before, and his imagination went into overdrive. Their paling skin, a stark difference from the black ground of the Forbidden Forest, chest still, limbs limp and askew on the floor as blood slowly stopped circulating and that had been so close to being the last way he would see them anymore - 

“Excuse me,” Draco said stiffly, standing up, and he tried to steady himself with deep breaths as the world started to sway and darken around him. It felt like someone was pushing on his chest, compressing his ribs to the point where it hurt, and he struggled to take in any air at all. “I’ll be right back.” He carefully made his way into the restroom, weaving around whatever was in his way and barely managed to keep himself composed before locking himself in a stall.

Waves of nausea crashed into him head-on and he tried to stay standing but after the first gag burned his throat, his breakfast threatening to come back up, he sank to his knees on the tile. It was disgusting, he was nearly leaning against a toilet in a public restroom, his trousers dragged across the filthy paneling, but he couldn’t find the energy to move. Draco was convinced his body had forgotten how to breathe, he was desperately sucking in as much air as he could and still the edges of his vision had started to turn dark, and his heart was pounding in his chest like a beast in a cage, wild and panicked and _oh god I might die here_ echoed in the back of his mind. 

That image of Potter, sprawled onto the forest floor and not breathing, of them carried to the castle and limply falling from the half-giant’s arms to the ground, of them never waking up and the Dark Lord winning the war and those empty green orbs staring into his soul screaming that it’s all his fault - it flashed in front of his eyes for what felt like an eternity and a second at the same time. 

He gagged again and barely managed to swallow the bile before it escaped completely, grimacing at the foul taste, and he could feel his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. “Fuck,” he panted, squeezing his eyes shut, forearm pressed to his mouth as he tried to take deeper breaths and willed his heart to slow the fuck down. A muffled whimper slipped past his lips and he wiped at the wet tracks down his cheeks, coming from tears he hadn’t realized had started to spill from his eyes. This sudden panic from the idea that they _died_ , under his watch, it was threatening to smother him completely, stealing most of the air from each of his gasped breaths. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

It felt like he had only been there for a few moments before there was a hesitant knock on the stall door, echoing around the bathroom and making his entire body tense on instinct. Draco prayed to someone, anyone, to be left alone with his nightmares - he didn’t want to try to deal with a muggle in this state. 

“Draco?” Aedan’s voice was filled with concern and Draco quickly wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, mouth still burning with the remnants of acid. Of course, of course it was him, his own guardian angel. “Are you okay? You have been gone longer than expected, it’s been nearly fifteen minutes. We got worried.” How had it been so long, it didn’t feel like he’d been breaking down for so long... His heart was pounding hard against his ribs at the threat of being found like this, caught being so pathetic he was sitting on the floor of a muggle bathroom and _crying_. “Draco,” Aedan said again, more urgently this time, then they mumbled “ _alohomora_ ” and Draco somehow gathered the strength to stand just as the lock on the stall clinked open. 

He knew what the auror saw: a sniveling, trembling, cowardly excuse of a Death Eater, knees dusted with grime from the bathroom tile, having to lean on the walls to stay on his feet. A disgusting waste of air and space, really; he wouldn’t blame them for saying so out loud. Draco watched as their eyes looked him up and down, finally settling onto his face. “Are you alright?” they asked quietly, and they had their hands out like they were preparing to catch him if he fell.

“I -” He struggled to keep his voice nonchalant, wracking his brain for a way to brush off his mess of an appearance, and he can feel nothing but the loud, hurried thudding in his chest. “I’m fine, just - just a stomach bug, I’m sure.” The words came out as shaky as he felt. Another gag shuddered its way through him and he could barely swallow it down, the effort nearly making his knees give out. 

“Draco this is more than a bug, is it poison? Do you think there was something in your cup? Would Harry Potter try to -”

He shook his head harshly, eyes squeezed shut as he tried to force his heart to slow down. “No, he - he wouldn’t,” Draco managed, and the bitterness in his voice surprised him. Good, saintly Harry Potter wouldn’t poison him, would never do something so subtle - he’d just throw a curse right at his face. 

Once the worst of the nausea had passed he raised his head, looking up to Aedan in time to see something like understanding flicker across their face. “Draco, you - if my -” They seemed to be searching for the right words and he let them, his heavy breath the only sound in the bathroom. “I would be sick as well if I found out my fiancé died,” the auror said finally, and their words sank into his gut in an ugly way. 

Was it really that obvious, did it show in his eyes during the trial, did he slip up and say something because _fuck_ they’d figured it out and it sent an ache of dread into his sternum. Weakly he shook his head in protest. “No, you’re wrong, I’m not - it’s not - it’s not like that,” he tried, but the words sounded feeble even to his own ears and after a few deep breaths he let his head drop again in resignation. He didn’t have the strength to keep arguing, not when it was taking all his energy to just stay standing, and when Aedan just stood there, Draco swallowed hard. “It doesn’t - what I think doesn’t matter. He wants me dead.”

He could hear the auror take a step back, away from him, and he was half-expecting them to try to rationalize his stupid, stupid infatuation, maybe even attempt to talk him out of it. “I’ll tell Mister Potter you’ll be a few more minutes,” they said instead, and then their footsteps faded away as the bathroom door closed, leaving Draco alone again. 

“Fuck,” he whispered. His knees shook like they were about to give out from beneath him. Aedan knew, now there was someone else that knew how pathetic he was and they were waiting outside, alone, at a table with Saint Potter. It wasn’t that Draco didn’t trust the auror; they didn’t seem the type to tell his secrets to the world, but the fact that there was a chance that his carefully-made front could come crashing down at the Boy Who Lived’s feet like this - Merlin, it made him want to vomit for real. He very delicately made his way out of the stall, leaning heavily on the bathroom’s walls as he did, and he was very thankful to be alone because when he raised his head to the mirror a choked sob slipped from his throat.

Draco looked, and reflected back to him was the scene from sixth year. Again he had retreated to a restroom because the panic threatened to suffocate him on the spot, again his face was the same sickly pale and showing nothing other than pure _stress_ ; the only things that were different were the lack of Hogwarts aesthetics in the room, his black jumper had replaced his school uniform, and there was no Potter storming in to slice his skin to ribbons and leave him on the floor for dead. 

Shaking his head he quickly blinked away any remaining tears and splashed a handful of water on his face, letting out a breath as the tremble in his muscles decreased a bit. After a few more breaths like that the shaking had calmed enough for him to manage to lift his head and stand unsupported, and then he waited until the nausea all but disappeared before moving again. 

He started for the bathroom door next, staring intently at its dulling metal handle as his body went through the motions of walking, and just as his pulse was starting to rise into worrying levels again his fingertips connected with the door handle. “Man up. Don’t be a pansy,” he mumbled to himself, and then he pulled the door open, carefully moving between tables and customers and trying to remember to keep breathing as he did.

Potter had left - Draco wasn’t sure when, or how he felt about it, but their chair had been neatly pushed into the table and their funny cup with a lid was gone. Aedan was in the same spot as before, reading through a small black notebook with his brow furrowed, and they looked up as Draco gingerly sat down in the chair next to him. “He had a meeting to attend,” the auror said, nodding at the empty space across the table. “He sends his apologies, and said he’d owl about a better time, after you’re well again.” 

“I see.” Draco winced inwardly at the formality of everything, slowly taking a sip from the glass of water in front of him. “It should be a quick recovery, I believe. I’m already starting to feel better.” He could feel eyes on him and turned, catching Aedan’s gaze with a raised eyebrow before they could pull it away. “What?”

“How long has it been?”

The ache from before, when they had figured it out, reappeared in his chest, and Draco dropped his head to look at his hands as they circled the plastic cup. “Since the end of our fifth year at Hogwarts, just over three years,” he replied quietly, and he hated himself more for each day that passed. “Too long. It’s - it’s been too long.”

“I am sorry.” Their voice is soft, and full of more compassion and empathy than he had heard in a long, long time. “He is the one that contacted you about today, yes? Perhaps there is a chance-”

Draco held up a hand to stop them, standing up suddenly. “I would like to go home now,” he said stiffly. His head was spinning from the fast movement but he couldn’t stand it, he couldn’t let them finish their thought and feed the false hope that lived inside of him. “Please.” 

Aedan nodded, clearly picking up on his dislike of the subject, and started towards the door to the cafe, pausing every so often to look back and make sure Draco was still slowly following behind.


	4. A Saint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I apologize for the long break, university started up again and then holidays happened, but here is another chapter! Hope you enjoy!

Draco firmly believed he was already halfway down the spiral staircase leading to insanity.

It had been exactly nine days since the last hearing session at the Ministry of Magic, and exactly seven days since he had been allowed to leave the Malfoy estate. Any hope of being cleared of all charges had withered away, the isolation only increasing his anxiety to the breaking point for what felt like every other night. Other than the lone owl from Potter the week before he had no mail, no contact with the rest of the wizarding world, and now his mother had even been forced to move to her sisters until the trial was over. For her own safety, they had said, but he knew it was because they feared she would help him escape the country. Aedan had temporarily moved into one of the guest rooms in the manor and kept him company, but the auror was such a voice of reason it kept him in a near-constant state of annoyance, and he tended to avoid them whenever possible. 

More and more he found himself aimlessly wandering down the empty halls, the memories from when You-Know-Who took up residency flickering over him sometimes, and lately he had started to reemerge from those trances on the roof. He was never near the edge, the wind mussing his hair as he swayed gently, a random book in one of his hands; it was peaceful in a way he couldn’t explain. He’d tend to stay up there reading, legs crossed comfortably beneath him, and unless Aedan sought him out, reminded him of the time, or shoved a plate of food at him, he’d stay up there long past sunset, casting a soft _lumos_ and tucking the handle of the wand behind his ear. 

That day had started no different - he’d roamed the library with a thermos of tea tucked under his arm, using it as a welcome warmth to combat the typical October morning chill, plucking down a paperback from one of the further shelves at random. It was undoubtedly a muggle book, something he had never heard of called _The Great Gatsby_ , but the way the cover and spine were worn with time suggested it had been read more than once. 

He had rounded the corner of the hallway leading towards his bedroom and almost collided with Aedan, stumbling backwards as he tried to resume the traditional distance they usually kept. “Merlin, couldn’t you at least watch where you’re going?” he snapped, but to his ears it just sounded tired, and he sighed inwardly. 

“Sorry, sorry,” they apologized, but it seemed like an afterthought, and they had their hand out as if they were planning to catch him. “I was trying to find you before the owl left, this - this was just delivered for you.” It took him a moment but his eyes focused on the envelope held in their other hand, taking a step forward before all but snatching it. 

There was hardly any wax seal holding it closed - it was like someone had spilled it over the envelope, then tried to clean it up after it had already started to harden, setting in a shapeless puddle that barely crossed onto the flap. A twist of his wrist told him the sender didn’t write anything on the outside more than just ‘Draco Malfoy’, and he could feel Aedan’s curious gaze flicking between him and the envelope. “Should.... Should I open it?” 

“I don’t see why not.” They shrugged but then took a step back, a decision that didn’t go unnoticed. “Just in case something happens,” they explained, offering a reassuring smile, but it didn’t settle the ball of nerves starting to build in his gut. 

It could be a Howler, it could be one of those muggle bombs that he had read about in the _Prophet_ , it could be cursed - he didn’t know why he suddenly cared about living, but the idea of having his head blown off didn’t appeal to him too much. “Alright.” He held the envelope at arm’s length and carefully popped the seal, bracing himself, bringing it closer when nothing happened. “It’s a normal letter?” From the corner of his eye he could see Aedan getting his wand at the ready. Gingerly Draco pulled the parchment free of the envelope, unfolding it, and after a quick scan of the recognizable handwriting he felt like he might faint. 

_Malfoy -_

_Round 2 of coffee, same time and place tomorrow?_

_-HJP_

“Draco? What - what happened?” He could hear the start of panic setting into their voice. “You’ve turned pale, are you okay? Draco?”

“I’m fine,” he replied quickly, closing his eyes to steady himself and shaking his head. “We’re just - we’re going to London again soon.” Potter had written to him again, had even asked to meet, he hadn’t messed everything up, and the world spun for a moment. 

Aedan held out his hand and Draco pushed the letter into it, trying to focus on breathing as his knees threatened to buckle from beneath him. Flashes of memories rippled through his mind’s eye, of black hair and crimson Quidditch robes and glimpses of the golden snitch, and then when he realized the auror was calling his name it sounded far away. 

“Draco,” they repeated and he finally heard it normally, and even though his eyes were closed he nodded to show he was listening. “Breathe, yes? This will be good for you, you need to get out of this house more.” 

Aedan passed the letter back, Draco opening his eyes, carefully folding it and slipping it into the envelope again. “I don’t know what you mean, I get loads of fresh air,” he said with more defensiveness than he intended, but he knew that wasn’t what they meant. 

It seemed as if they wanted to argue then thought better of it, opening and closing their mouth silently. “I would write an answer before the owl flies off,” the auror said finally, slipping their wand back into the sleeve of their robes and shrugging. “Since all of yours have been temporarily confiscated.” 

The thought of not being able to reply, of Potter thinking he’s ignoring them, made him bolt towards his father’s old study, the door closest to his left. He hadn’t been inside since before he last went to Hogwarts, a gentle speckling of dust settling over the room in Lucius’s absence. Draco barely looked around as he strode to the large wooden desk, bending to pull a quill and inkwell from one of the drawers and scribbling a quick reply on the back of the letter. 

_See you then. -Malfoy_

The owl, a large Great Horned with wide eyes that seemed to see through to his soul, had followed him throughout the house by hopping between windowsills, tapping impatiently on the glass panes of the study. “I’m coming,” he muttered, stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, message facing outwards, and crossed out the _Draco Malfoy_ in favor of writing a _Harry Potter_ on the front of it. “Here.” He pushed open the window, holding out the letter and flinching a bit as the bird snatched it with its yellowed beak. It seemed to shoot him an impatient glare before gliding away, vanishing into the afternoon sky with a silent, single flap of its wings, and Draco watched it go with only a slight turn of his stomach. 

Even before he had handed over his reply his mind had been racing through his closet, trying to figure out what to wear for the meeting the next day. He had finally settled on a green turtleneck jumper and black blazer, maybe with some dark trousers, when he realized he was acting like some lovestruck teenage girl; he was an adult, old enough to not be fawning over the Chosen One like every other schoolgirl in the wizarding world. He was being ridiculous.

Draco was pulled from his thoughts as Aedan knocked softly on the doorframe, turning and looking up enough to meet the auror’s gaze, and he could see his own wishes reflected back in their eyes. “I’m not going to get my hopes up,” he lied, stepping back from the window. “It’s not - I’m not stupid you know, it’s never going to happen.” 

He watched in disbelief, then embarrassment, as the auror laughed a little, shaking their head. “I am not here to pry into your thoughts, Draco. I just wanted to see if you had eaten lunch.”

“Oh.” His cheeks turned warm and he cleared his throat, pointedly avoiding their eyes again. “I, uhm, I haven’t yet, thank you for reminding me.” Merlin he was pathetic - he would need a glass of wine before bed if he was expecting to sleep tonight. 

* * *

Of course the Boy Who Lived was waiting when Draco and Aedan arrived at the cafe, his stupid hair all messed up and standing on end as he sat with his back towards the door again. Instead of the leather jacket from last time, the one that lingered in the back of his mind despite all attempts to erase it, they were wearing the same basic all-black trousers, undershirt, and robes that aurors-in-training would wear, last name most likely embroidered in gold on the left chest. Even from here he can see three of the plastic glasses on the table, already half-full of water and placed where each person had sat the last time they were there, and after a moment he realized it was the exact same table as well. 

Without waiting for Aedan to look over the room he started weaving his way across the cafe, carefully easing between the other tables and customers, and every step had his heart slipping further and further up into his throat. It felt like an eternity before Draco sat down across from Potter, pulling the chair out and settling into it with one fluid movement he half-expected to send him sprawling onto the floor instead. 

He saw them do a double-take before leaning back in their chair. “You’re early,” Potter said, seeming somewhat confused. Draco noticed they were reading the same book, the title still not appearing familiar, but he watched them put the paperback down without marking their page; that level of attention directed his way sent a warmth flowing through him for a moment. 

“Oh don’t sound so surprised, you’re here early as well,” he drawled back, and he could tell they were literally biting their tongue to hold back a reply. “I do apologize for last time, the stomach flu isn’t the best way to end a meeting.”

Aedan quietly slipped into the chair next to him as Potter sat up a little straighter, and Draco could see their eyes beginning to light up with a fire reminiscent of their early days at Hogwarts. His traitorous heart skipped a beat. “Are you sure it was the flu, Malfoy?” they snapped. “Or did you just poison yourself to waste my time?”

He scoffed, adopting the smirk that used to feel more like a second skin but now felt unnatural. “I’m flattered that you think I could slip myself a potion that sneakily, but you’re wrong. I was vomiting for the next few hours after our little meeting, Potter, perhaps you’re the one actually trying to get rid of me.”

“Me? Poison you? Are you accusing me of-”

“If the both of you do not calm down I will be forced to confiscate both your wands,” Aedan interrupted sharply, and the threat dragged him back to reality, realizing both he and the Chosen One were standing and preparing to lunge at each other. “Sit down.”

“Fine,” he and Potter snapped back in unison, sitting down hard, and he could see Aedan’s eyes narrowing suspiciously. 

Draco cleared his throat, grabbing the glass of water and pulling it closer to him, thumb gliding along the lip of the glass. “Anyway.” Potter raised an eyebrow but he ignored it. “You’re done testifying, Potter, why did you call me here to talk? Did you miss the company?” The words came out with an unintentional sneer, eyes quickly lifting to see their reaction, which was simply biting their own tongue again. It physically hurt him a bit to say it, to keep up this facade of disgust and condescension he had worn for so long because he _did_ wish it was true - he wished that they had missed him. 

The Boy Who Lived blinked, sighed, then took a sip from the water glass resting near their hand. In the silence that followed he could feel Aedan’s questioning look directed it at him, and he knew it had to be because the disdain in his voice didn’t match the three years of longing they knew he was hiding. “Hermione and Ron told me this was a bad idea,” they finally said, and the resignation in their tone made his insides twist unpleasantly. 

Almost immediately there was a question perched on the tip of his tongue but he swallowed it, contenting himself with studying their features instead, something he rarely had the chance to do from this close. He and Potter were always fighting, throwing around threats and hexes like they were nothing, and he’d never been able to appreciate the way time had treated the Chosen One. 

They looked grown up now, like all their proportions had worked themselves out nicely; their shoulders had broadened, some stubble had grown along the jawline that had appeared in the last few months, and he could even see faint outlines of pectoral muscles beneath their shirt as they breathed. However, the dark, bruise-coloured circles under Potter’s eyes didn't go unnoticed either - Draco privately thought that they had started to rival his own. 

“Well.” They spoke and it pulled him from the small trance he had been in, his eyes refocusing and quickly shifting from their face to the chipped wooden table between them. “Really, I’m here to ask about Hogwarts. You probably won’t give me an answer but I want to try to understand why you were so awful back then, just as some closure for everything.” At their words a chill started to creep into his limbs, the same _dread_ as the trial drawing goosebumps to his skin and seeping through his bones. Draco opened his mouth to talk, didn't even have a plan for what to say, but Potter held up a hand to stop him before he could utter a sound. “Don’t you dare Malfoy, I don’t want to hear your voice, not until I’m finished, or I’m leaving and you’ll be left alone again.”

 _Fuck_. He glanced over at Aedan, nodding slowly after snapping his jaw shut, and beneath the table his hands knotted together, thumb rubbing along a rough scratch on his knuckle. 

Potter was silent for a few moments. Draco could feel their gaze shifting to focus on him. “I want to know why you did all that stuff,” they said finally, and the coldness of their voice nearly made him flinch. “No, actually, I want you to wake up and realize how fucking awful you were to everyone that didn’t worship you, that’s really what I want.” 

For the first time in a long time, Draco was speechless. “All the stuff you said about my parents, Hermione, Ron and his family, none of us ever did anything to you except exist, which you seemed to take offense at. You called Hermione that vile name, you were always rude to Ron because he wasn’t from the same sort of family as a conceited prick like you, Malfoy you sent a bloody snake at me when we were twelve! You helped Umbridge torture students! I bet you’ve actually been in Neville’s nightmares because of how much of a fucking monster you are, you’re one of the most awful people I’ve ever met, Malfoy, and I do mean that.”

As they paused to take a breath Draco closed his eyes. They were right - he was a bully, riding the high from his family’s wealth and bloodline as an excuse to torment everyone he had ever interacted with. He also would admit to himself, albeit hesitantly, that he hadn’t really changed since his school days. He had grown quieter, but a Ministry-imposed solitude would do that to anyone; his few conversations with Potter, with Aedan, even his own mother, still carried the cruel undertones they always had. Brief flashes of memories came and went, of their second-year duel and bickering in the Forbidden Forest and interrupting the final meeting of Dumbledore’s Army, and the same bit of fear from the hearing started to seep up closer to his chest. 

“Are you sorry?” The cafe chair creaked, and he opened his eyes to see Potter staring at him intently, arms resting gently on the table. “Because I don’t think you are. I can think of one- no, two, literally only two good things you’ve ever done in your life, and I can tell you only did them because they’d benefit you too.” 

That was the question, wasn’t it - it wasn’t about whether he did awful things, everyone already knew the answer to that, it was more about whether he felt some remorse about any of them.

“See, Malfoy, I know you’re not sorry, you don’t have to play dumb with me. I know all about you. You can’t use your parents as an excuse, since they weren’t at Hogwarts with you ever, and they definitely aren’t with you now, which means you were an arse of your own free will.” They leaned in then, even closer than before, and Draco had to fight every fiber of his being to stay where he was. “It’s like I’ve said before, your father’s vile, and cruel, and you’re pathetic. It’s a miracle you had enough backbone to stand up straight on your own without needing Crabbe and Goyle to hold you up.”

He couldn’t bear to look them in the eye after that, choosing to shift his gaze down to the gouges in the mahogany tabletop. The Golden Boy was right, about everything, and as much as he wanted to look up at them and see the face of someone that had solved his every problem without realizing it, he knew all he would find was the stone-cold expression Potter had worn the last few times they had been photographed for _The_ _Prophet_. 

“But.” That one word made his heart skip and Draco didn’t know how he felt about it, because there was something different in it, a tone he’d never heard from them before. “They’re all gone, all those bad influences are gone, well at least most of them are, and I’m hoping now that they’re all out of the picture you’ll change.” 

Aedan quietly excused himself at the pause in conversation, their robes brushing past his arm as they moved around the table. Leaving him alone with the Boy Who Lived, who he had tried to kill on more than one occasion. _Fuck_. His fingers twisted into a painful knot in his lap, and Draco was terrified to breathe too loudly for fear of setting off whatever potential explosion seemed to be lingering in the air. 

Potter hesitated for a few moments, almost as if they were waiting for Aedan to get out of earshot, before speaking again in a slightly harsher tone. “Ron and Hermione both think I’m mad for talking to you about all this but I’ve decided to give you a second chance, Malfoy. Hey. _Hey_. Look at me, idiot.” They snapped their fingers at him and Draco pulled himself out of the daze that their words sent him to, slowly lifting his eyes up to meet theirs. “Don’t you get it? I think you’re an annoying prat, but I don’t - I really don’t think you deserve Azkaban, I think you deserve a chance to get out of your stupid house and see that pretty much everything about you and everything you do is bigoted and cruel and get to maybe change that. We both know the only way you’d get that is if me, the Boy Who Lived, the great Harry Potter, spoke at your trial on your behalf.”

He closed his eyes again. The guilt for everything, for existing in such an awful way for so long, rushed him all at once. “I-” His voice cracked and beneath the table his too-short nails pushed crescents into his palms. “I’m sorry,” he managed to whisper, and he was, he had never felt more sorry in his entire life than in this muggle coffee shop chair with the Boy Who Lived sitting across from him as if they were friends.

Potter let the silence hang between them for a bit, the hum of surrounding conversations attempting to fill in any awkwardness, and Draco’s mind raced with the scenes from Potions, from the Room of Requirement and the tower and Umbridge’s raid on Potter’s Army and the Golden Trio’s visit to Malfoy Manor and the train in sixth year and every other moment that could have doomed him to the same fate as his father. “Ron and Hermione will probably never trust you again,” Potter said suddenly, and the passion that had been in his voice had quieted. He kept his eyes closed and just listened to them talk again, because something told him that if he looked up at them right now he’d bolt for the door. “Pretty sure you’re the most horrible person they’ve dealt with, and I don’t blame them for hating you, I would if I hadn’t met a lot of your Death Eater friends. Look, you - we’re eighteen, Malfoy, we were kids that had to fight in a literal war instead of going to school, and I just - now that it’s over I want you to get the chance to change like the rest of us, now that you’re got time to properly grow up.”

Well fuck, now Potter was making him cry, small trembles of shock and relief traveling through his body as a few stray, silent tears slipped down his cheeks, falling onto his fingers that were painfully contorted together. And, despite it all, there was a part of him that wanted to smile when they admitted to not hating him after everything that had happened. 

Draco sat in that position for what felt like hours, tightly squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to stop the tears from forming, and with a sniff he came to the realization that their nickname he had heard somewhere, Saint Potter, had a lot more truth to it than he had first thought. Someone nearby cleared their throat quietly and he forced himself to look up from his lap to the half-full water cup on the table in front of him, sleeves of his jumper cool and damp against his wrists as he hastily wiped the remaining wetness from his face. Merlin, he was a pathetic Malfoy, always falling apart whenever Potter was around. 

Their hands, looking much more worn and used than his own, appeared on the table not far from his glass. “After the trial the Minister pulled me to the side and asked for an individual statement.” _Oh fuck_. Draco didn’t dare breathe, but he could hear them shifting in their wooden chair, and he swore there was a Dementor cape hem flitting along the edge of his vision. “Said my testimony gave some mixed reviews and he wanted to talk.”

“And?” The question slipped out before he could stop it so he sniffed once, hastily wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand, then lifted his chin to meet their gaze. “Should I even bother returning home today, or are you going to just arrest me right here?”

“Didn’t really realize you were so eager to get sent to Azkaban and see your father again,” they replied calmly, looking at him with a curious expression, and Draco’s traitorous heart skipped long enough to make his next breath catch. “Shacklebolt said that unless new evidence comes to light they’ll be releasing you at the next session, free of all charges. Something about expert witness testimony.” 

A tear openly slid down his cheek before he could stop it and Draco quickly brushed it away, managing to give them a small smile. “Thank you.” If what they were saying was correct, he’d be free: no more threats, no more Ministry around every corner, no more worrying about what would happen to his mother if he’s gone. He’d get the chance to properly grow up, like they said. 

Potter shrugged, and he swore there was a shimmer of light surrounding their head. “I didn’t do much. You - when you’re actually released, free to do whatever, send me an owl and I can buy you a couple drinks. It’ll make us pretty much even.” 

He couldn’t help the scoff of disbelief that slipped out. “You actually want to hang out with me? Why?” It sounded too good to be true, and that part of him that dared to hope glowed brightly. 

“I told you Malfoy, I don’t think you’re all bad. I think your dad and friend choices are pretty shit, but I am going to actively try to give you that second chance.” They shifted, taking a sip of water before pushing on the table to stand, and gazing up at Potter was a view he hadn’t known he wanted. There was definitely a hint of something gold shining in their dark, birdsnest of hair - if Draco did believe in the muggle idea of angels, he was sure that the Boy Who Lived was the most revered of them all. “Just - if you want it,” they continued, pulling his mind back into the cafe. “There is an open invitation for drinks when you can get regular owls again, my schedule is - it’s pretty flexible now.” 

Draco nodded, sitting up a little straighter in his chair and debating on if he should stand as well. “I appreciate it,” he said instead, offering them another hesitant smile as his hands twisted together in his lap. Potter’s insistence on getting drinks, even if it was only as enemies-turned-acquaintances, sent his stomach into a nervous churn. “And when - if I get off,” he corrected quickly, “we’ll be properly even, no more of this life-saving ridiculousness you keep throwing around.” 

Potter seemed to pause for a moment before returning the smile, shoving their hands into the pockets of their robes. “Works for me. I’ve, uhm, I’ve got to get going, auror stuff, but I look forward to hearing that you’re cleared of everything. See you around, Malfoy.” 

He watched them turn and walk to the cafe entrance, dipping his head on instinct as they glanced back at him, and he didn’t dare blink until they were out of sight because otherwise he would swear it had been his imagination. Then the glass door shut behind Potter with a gentle clang, the hem of their robe vanishing around the corner, and Draco let out a sigh so large his body nearly collapsed from the weight of it all. “The Great Harry Potter wants to get drinks with me, a confirmed Death Eater.” Even in a barely-audible whisper, hearing the words out loud sent an electric spark up his spine. “Merlin this is ridiculous, there is no way this is real and happening, it - my luck is not this good,” he groaned, rubbing at his eyes and quickly opening them again when Potter’s limp body reappeared in the darkness. 

“Congratulations, Draco.” He twisted to see Aedan settle into the seat next to him, looking particularly pleased. “I ran into Mister Potter on his way out, he told me you are to be cleared after the next hearing, that is very good news.” 

“Yes, well.” He traced the rim of the plastic cup with his thumb, shrugging in an attempt to seem casual. “It’s a much better outcome than what I expected, but it is technically the correct one.” 

He could feel their eyes looking him over for a few moments, long enough to make him uncomfortable, before they spoke again. “You were afraid to speak in court because of him, isn’t it. You lied to your parents, to Bellatrix, because you lo-”

“Don’t say it,” Draco said harshly, and the thought brought an ugly warmth to his cheeks. 

“Yes, yes, you lied because you care for him,” Aedan finished instead. “And if that were to come out, especially with him in attendance, the uproar would be unpleasant at best.” 

Instead of answering them Draco took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let the lie of omission speak the truth. This infatuation, it was obvious, wasn’t it - Aedan had barely begun to know him and already the auror was piecing things together better than his own parents ever had. Maybe Pansy had been right, he had grown soft. 

“You know, my congratulations does extend to the future drinks as well.” His head shot up and they were looking at him with a slight smirk, leaning back in the wooden chair. “I am employed to protect you, Draco, and that includes listening spells whenever I am not by your side. I must admit, it is a nice change from earlier. I thought you were both going to begin dueling.”

“Not today,” he replied vaguely, standing and nodding towards the door, but his mind was preoccupied with the way Potter had looked back at him from over their shoulder, their hair hinting at some gold in the cafe’s yellow lights.


End file.
